The Basics of Wartime Survival
by driedflowers0808
Summary: 1940's/WWII A/U re-imagining of the series, following the lives of the Study Group starting from 1943 at Lowry Air Force Base until the end of the War. Jeff/Britta/Annie love triangle, Annie/Abed, and some Troy/Britta.


A/N: 1940'sWWII A/U re-imagining of the series, following the lives of the Study Group starting from 1943 at Lowry Air Force Base until the end of the War. Jeff/Britta/Annie love triangle, Annie/Abed, and some Troy/Britta.

*So, Annie and Troy are a bit flirty in this chapter, but it doesn't end up going anywhere.

*Special note to all you History buffs out there, I'm not perfect and this may not end up being 100% historically accurate, but I tried to make it somewhat accurate. So bare with me.

*Also, some of the study group members' backstories are hybrids of historical figures. Britta, for example, is a hybrid of many different female foreign War Correspondents. Jeff's background is a hybrid of many different pilots. Annie's background will be a hybrid of different nurses. And I completely made up Abed's story-line, so please allow yourself a suspension of disbelief when reading those parts. (I'm like 99% sure it never happened during WWII).

* * *

**January 1943**

Pierce Hawthorne had his back turned from the door of his office. He preferred to face the window, glancing out at the mountains, as he wrote his editorials on Americans in Combat on the European Front. His glances eventually turned into a set, listless stare. That was when he heard it, the sound, that shudder inducing sound. He cringed, as this was a sound hardly ever heard in _The Denver Sentinel's_ Office.

The clack, clack on the wood floors filled his mind with a myriad of thoughts, at first positive, but they quickly became negative. He dreaded it to be his wife, then he dreaded it to be his ex-wife, or his step-daughter. Still with his back turned, he heard the scraping of a chair being pulled across the wood of the floor and the ruffling of what he knew to be a dress being smoothed out by what he assumed were milky, soft, feminine hands.

"Mr. Hawthorne?" the woman's voice, serious and confident, asked, "I'm here to inquire about a writing opportunity."

He turned in his chair, glaring at the blonde woman in front of him, to say, "I'm sorry, but its my policy to not hire women. You get too emotional about things and are too flighty to be dependable. Why don't you go and write for that women's magazine on the third floor? They'll appreciate your opinion on what color lipstick is appropriate for attracting the right man. Red will make people think you're a tart, in case you were wondering."

"Listen, Mr. Hawthorne," the blonde woman forced him a smile, her lips trembling in attempt to control her anger, "I can't change my sex, but you can most certainly change your policy."

He gave her an intense stare for a minute, examining her features, realizing who she was. There was talk about her, all over. The reputation of her personal life superseded that of her writing. He knew she wrote well and he knew because of what they said about her, her journalistic opportunities were currently lacking. "I know who you are," he said, smiling, "You're that woman correspondent, ah, Britta Perry, who got fired from _The New York Times_."

"I didn't get fired!" she blurted out with wide eyes. She calmed herself, then explained, "I left on my own accord. We had a misunderstanding."

"What kind of misunderstanding?" he said, smirking back at her, then let out a smug laugh.

"The kind that a woman doesn't like to publicize," she replied, attempting to compose herself, to not show her inner feelings. Unfortunately for her, she was not succeeding. Her lips pursed at him and her eyebrows narrowed, saying, "It was a bum rap."

"I've read your pieces from the Spanish Civil War," he stated.

"And what did you think?" she smirked at him.

"A bit flowery for my taste, but-"

"But, its the exact reason why everything is happening in Europe right now! I know how to report from a war zone. I know how to get places without cars and how to deal with the military. I've been over there and If you would allow me to write for you, then I could go over there and-"

"I haven't even hired you yet. I mean there's my policy and-"

"You can change it," she interrupted, "Please, Mr. Hawthorne. I'm running out of options with my issue in New York and I know you are short on staff right now, which I assume is because of your precious policy and the fact that all the men are currently gone and off to war or off reporting about it."

He paused for a moment to look at her, "I like you, Miss Perry, you're hired, but I don't want to see you get all choked up about stuff."

"I don't think that will be a problem," she said, while taking a notebook out of her purse and began to speak to him, while taking notes, "to the point where I think you could even send me to Europe or maybe even North Africa and I'll get you the damn story of your life. Before anyone else does."

He began to laugh at her, "You think I'm going to send a woman into a war zone? Think again, missy. I already have Garrett Lambert in North Africa-"

"You sent Lambert to North Africa?" she asked, suppressing her laughter, "I know him and he couldn't write a dispatch about a sandlot baseball game."

"I have great faith in Mr. Lambert."

"Then what are you hiring me for?" her mouth dropped open, "You know what kind of stories I write. When I wrote for _The Times_, I was over in Spain getting shots fired at my head!"

"Your stuff in Spain was good," he remained silent for a moment, "If something happens, you can be on deck. I'll consider sending you, but for now, I need someone to write stories about what's going on in the home front."

"Like about what? How women make clothes and send bandages?" she scoffed back at him, crossing her arms.

"Pretty much," he shrugged back.

"You are going to give me a better assignment," she demanded, "You've seen my writing and you know I'm better than this. You could pick any girl off the street to write about nurses and homemakers making bandages."

He stared back at her, and then looked though his papers, passing her a picture, "Major Jeff Winger has returned home to the Greendale, Colorado, located in between Denver and Colorado Springs. He's the basis for that popular comic strip... _Pogo Field_, that's published in all the papers, the one about the United States Army Air Corps... Why don't you interview him? Do a feature?"

"Yeah, I mean even though there are important, influential happenings in the world, I'll do a feature on this keen looking, full of himself pilot who probably is back here on leave to find some pushover dame to-" she stared to say with sarcasm.

"Miss Perry, this is the assignment I'm giving you," he interrupted her.

She pushed her hair behind her ears, fluttering her eyelashes in anger and disbelief, "You can't be serious?" she tilted her head at him, pursing her lips.

"He's an American Hero! He got a distinguished flying Cross for air lifts in The Hump, during the thirties and he volunteered for the RAF, as a fighter pilot, at the beginning of the war. And he is here for an unspecified amount of time. You've run out of options Miss Perry and you sure as hell can't afford to be a wise guy," he narrowed his eyes at her.

"Fine," she forced a smile, "I'll go to Nowhereville, Colorado and get you a story, a good story. So good that you will have no choice, but to send me to report about the war."

Britta got up from her chair and left the room. She closed the door to Mr. Hawthorne's office and muttered to herself as she looked at the picture of her story's subject, "All American hero? Looks like an All American Asshole."

* * *

As she made coffee, Annie Edison stared at the mysterious man sitting in the last booth, the one next to the door, of Pelton's Diner. For the last week, everyday at nine am, this man sat in the last booth and read the newspaper, ordering cereal and cold hot chocolate.

She narrowed her eyes and turned to Vicki, the other waitress, whispering "Who do you think that man is?"

Vicki rolled her eyes and responded with sarcasm, "I bet he is a spy."

"Ha-ha," Annie deadpanned then said back seriously, "Stop trying to be a wise guy. I'm serious."

"Annie," Vicki said as she filled up the coffee pot, "Between the three bases around here, theres always a whole slew of people who come and go."

"I know, but he is different..." Annie said.

Then the door opened, a man came through and sat at the bar to the diner, "Hello, miss, I would like-"

"Scrambled eggs and toast with orange juice," Annie interrupted with a giggle, "I saved some eggs, just for you. We ran out at eight thirty."

"I don't even know why I bother ordering," he smiled at her.

"Well, its what you've been ordering since you used to work here, speaking of which, Troy, you should-"

"No, Annie. Enough people think Shirley is my mother as it is," Troy said, tilting his head.

"But you hate it at the car repair garage!" Annie frowned, "Come on, just come back here. You'll be happier, you can see all the regulars you miss, no one knows how to make grilled cheese like you do," she turned around to pour orange juice and muttered to herself, "and you'll get to see me more." Annie turned around and set the orange juice in front of Troy, tilting her head at him as she fluttered her eyelashes, "What do you say?"

"I say, that face you're currently making could stop the War, but it wont convince me to work here again. A man can't make a living working at a diner," he said, but then added, "As swell as it was working here."

"And you can't make a living fixing cars when everything has been rationed!" she said, shaking her head.

"Annie, please, stop buggin' me. You know I have to move on. When the war is over, it will be better. You don't want to work here forever, either, otherwise you wouldn't be going to nursing school too. Besides, you graduate in four months and you are definitely going to find a new job, right away."

"Okay, Troy, I'll stop beating a dead horse," she said, forcing a smile, "Just do me a favor and humor me about one thing?"

"Anything," he said, smiling back at her.

"Who do you think that man, sitting in the last booth, is?" she said, raising one eyebrow at him.

"Him?" Troy gave her a sly smile, "That man... is a spy."

"Troy!" Annie said with frustration as her voice became somewhat strained, "I'm serious!"

"Annie calm down," he said, laughing, "He's probably an engineer or someone working at one of the bases. You never like to let your imagination wonder about these things."

"You and Vicki can't take anything seriously," she shook her head and walked over to a table to take an order.

"Good morning!" Annie said to the table she was at, 'What can I get for you?"

"A new waitress," the old man at the table said with a laugh.

"Really funny, Leonard, you think you're such a wise guy," she replied, narrowing her eyes, "I'll come back later."

"No need to be a wet blanket! This will be reflected in your tip!" Leonard said.

"Oh, like two pennies is going to motivate me!" she said with sarcasm, while walking back to the counter.

When she got to the counter to get coffee, Troy said to her, with a slight laugh, "You can't treat the customers like that."

"I've been more than nice to him, yet he never gives me more than two pennies, no matter what he gets," Annie smiled back at him,"Besides, it doesn't matter anyway because Shirley hates him more than anyone."

"True," Troy nodded, "I'm surprised that he hasn't started to go to a different place. I mean, I know I would."

"He's been coming here since the Civil War," Annie said, raising her eyebrows.

"Annie, its not funny to joke about how old people are," Troy smiled back at her, then began to laugh, "Even if they are annoying geezers."

"Its not a joke if its true," she replied with a smile.

Then a blonde woman, wearing high wasted pants, walked into the diner, sighing as she took her sunglasses off and looked for an open booth.

"Wow," Annie said to Troy, "I wish I had the nerve to wear pants during the day.'

"You also wish you were married to Clark Gable," Troy smiled at her.

"A gal can dream," she replied, "Besides, I'm not the one who prays every night for Jean Arthur and Frank Ross to break up."

"She is adorable!" Troy defended himself, "She was amazing in _Mr. Smith Goes to Washington_!"

The blonde woman sat in one of the booths and began to smoke a cigarette.

Annie walked over and said, "Hello, I'm Annie. What would you like this morning?"

"A coffee," the woman said as she opened her newspaper. She looked up at Annie and asked, "Have you read this?"

"Yes, I believe I did-"

"What did you think? Do you think this article written by this Lambert is lacking anything?" Britta gestured to the newspaper.

"Well, um-I don't-"

"You don't know, right?" she asked excitedly, widening her eyes.

"Ye-ah," Annie said slowly.

"Its like you want to know more, more about what is going on, better descriptions of what is going on. The humanity involved, the children being forced out of their homes, the peril of not knowing if you go to sleep in your own bed tonight if you'll wake up for tomorrow. You want to be immersed with details so it feels like you actually are there-right?"

"Yes, I mean I guess so. I really just care to know if the Axis powers have been defeated."

"I see what you're saying, but do you know that _The Chicago Tribune_, _The New York Times_ and _The New York Herald Tribune_ broke this story first and with better details! Details that should be known by the American public! I should be there, not him! Not Lambert!"

"You are journalist?"

"Yes, I was a war correspondent, but now I'm here doing features on trivial things because women apparently should not be allowed in war zones. Pffft. Anyway, you want to want to know first and know everything, don't you?"

"I mean, yes, but, but um-" Annie stammered, "Say, you must tell me where you got those pants."

"I got them in France before they betrayed the entire world," Britta scoffed, then angrily turned the page of her newspaper, "Believe me when I say its the last thing I'll ever buy from that Nazi sympathizer Coco Chanel."

"Okay, thanks," Annie forced a smile, "I'll be right back with your coffee."

Annie walked up to the counter and began to wait for the coffee pot to refill.

"So, what's the blonde's story?" Troy asked Annie. He smiled at her, raising his eyebrows, "Another spy?"

"No," Annie said, smiling, her voice raising an octave in a flirty manner, "She is a journalist. She was complaining about a newspaper article and how she was supposed to be in Europe."

"Well, if her car breaks down, you know where to send her," Troy replied, smiling as he looked at Britta over his shoulder. He turned to Annie and said, "Actually, just send her to the garage, anyway."

Annie rolled her eyes, "Get back to work, even if you don't have any material to work with."

"I do have to get going. Bye, Annie," Troy waved goodbye, then left the diner.

Annie returned to the table, the blonde woman looked up at her, with one eyebrow risen, "Hey- Annie?"

"Yes, miss?"

"Perry, my name is Miss Britta Perry. Do you know this man?" she held up a picture.

"That's Major Winger!" Annie beamed, "He was awarded a Distinguished flying cross and he's the basis for the Captain in _Pogo-_"

"So you guys do love him around here, huh?" she began to look through her notes.

"He's a hero!" Annie said, nodding her head, "What he did during that airlift over The Hump in China was-"

"I bet he is. From what I hear, I'm sure he will love to talk about himself when I interview him today," Britta said with sarcasm as she casually turned the page of her newspaper.

"He's coming here?" Annie's eyes widened.

"He sure is," Britta said before taking a sip from her coffee, "I can't wait to hear him brag about himself and how great of a pilot he is. It sure will be a swell time."

"I sense some sarcasm," Annie commented.

Britta looked at her and said, "This guy," she pointed at his picture, "Has been on top of the world his entire life, captain of his high school basketball team, pilot license at age fifteen, reputation as a ladykiller, went to West Point, will probably be soon promoted to Colonel and I have to do a story about him. HIM! When there are a thousand more important things happening as we speak!"

"You already hate him, yet you've never met him?" Annie asked, "As a journalist, aren't you supposed to be objective?"

"I don't hate him... Its just I'm supposed to be in Europe. I was almost there, but..."

"But what?"

"Never mind," Britta shook her head, "Could I please have some dry toast?"

"Sure,' Annie nodded, then walked away. She went behind the counter and put bread in the toaster, then she decided to go check on the man sitting at the end booth.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asked the man as he folded his newspaper up.

He looked up at her and said, "No thanks, but the-"

The front door opened, Major Winger walked through. He went up and talked to Vicki, asking her who the reporter was.

"I can't believe he is here," Annie said, with wide eyes.

"Who? That G.I.?" the man in the booth asked her.

"Yes," Annie said, looking over at Winger talking to Vicki. "He has a reputation for being a great pilot, among other things," she said, still staring at Jeff.

"A reputation is nice and all, but remember," the man in the booth tilted his head at her and took a drag from his cigarette, "with courage you can do without reputation."

"Why-why would you say that?" Annie turned towards him, tilting her head, unnerved. She said, struggling with the words, "Th-that's from something familiar. What is-is it from?"

The man took a drag of his cigarette and said, "_Gone with the Wind_, I thought it was appropriate considering you bare a resemblance to Miss Leigh."

She widened her eyes at him as she watched him take out his wallet, set cash on the table, get up, tilt his hat to her and leave. Annie looked at the tip on the table, it was five dollars. Her hand quickly reached for it, as she did not want anyone else to now how large of a tip she got for serving a man cereal.

Jeff Winger spotted the blonde smoking a cigarette while reading a newspaper in one of the booths. He smiled as he noticed her feminine looking curls, and the light blue sweater draped over her shoulders. He stood in front of her with a confident stance and said, "Major Winger U.S. Army Air Corps and you are?"

"Miss Britta Perry, journalist for _The Denver Sentinel_," Britta stood up out of the booth to shake his hand. Jeff noticed the pants she wore and looked her up and down.

"Pants? I see you take great pride in professionalism," he said with slight sarcasm.

Ignoring his comment, she sat back in the booth. Britta took a drag from her cigarette, "I have some questions to ask you."

"Go ahead," he smiled at her, "I would't mind having a dame as beautiful as you asking me questions."

"Speaking of professionalism," Britta began as she wrote in her notebook, "I don't believe it is professional to feed lines to the journalist interviewing you like I'm some nurse at some USO dance."

He laughed, shaking his head, "My apologies, Miss Perry."

"You're not taking this seriously at all? Are you?" she narrowed her eyes at him.

"I'm not the one who decided to wear pants like I was going on some picnic," he tilted his head back at her.

"This is how I dress," she replied, putting her pencil down next to her notebook. She took a deep breathe, flashing him an insincere smile,"So, Major, I thought you were a fighter pilot, what are you doing back here in Colorado, right when everything is starting to heat up in Europe? I would think the Army Air Force would need experienced fighter pilots, over there."

"I'm instructing at Lowry and participating in training to fly a new aircraft."

"What kind of aircraft?"

"One that I can't discuss."

She rose her eyebrows at him, trying to suppress her smile, "Its the B-29? Isn't it? I thought you flew fighter planes?"

"I was flying B-17s in the thirties," he said, brushing off her first question.

"Oh, I know that. They say you're an American hero. Distinguished Flying cross for airlifts in China," Britta nodded and smiled at him.

"Someone's been researching me," he smiled back at her.

"Did I ever tell you how handsome you look in that uniform? Olive is just a great color for you," she said, still smiling as she reached over and touched his arm.

He looked at her in the eyes and smirked, "Miss Perry, are you trying to flirt information out of me?"

She narrowed her eyes at him, her mouth contorting from a smirk to opening slightly out of disgust, "I can't believe you would even insinuate that."

"Because the flirting, I don't mind. I don't mind that one bit. Its the deceit which," he clutched his chest, "just hurts."

Just as Britta was about to respond to him, Annie came over to take Jeff's order.

"Hello, My name is Annie, can I get you anything Major? Coffee? Tea? Toast?" Annie asked Jeff with a smile.

Jeff smiled back at her and said, "A coffee would be great, thanks beautiful."

She smiled back, blushing and said, "Okay, I'll be right back."

Britta rolled her eyes at him and said, "So, about the B-29-"

"I can't discuss that with you," Jeff shrugged, "I'm not authorized."

She forced a smile and said, "Could you put me in touch with someone, who is authorized?"

"I thought this was supposed to be a profile of my life and my time as a fighter pilot in Europe, before the United States got involved?" Jeff asked her.

"Please, I need to get a decent story out of this, so-"

"So, I'm not a decent story? How do you know I don't have an exciting story to tell?'

Britta shook her head and asked, "What's the point of interviewing you, if you don't answer any of my questions?"

"I don't know? You called me."

"Fine," she shook her head and began packing up her stuff, "You were supposed to be my ticket to Europe! Where everything important is happening! Not East Bumble-fuck, Colorado!"

His eyes widened, "Wow, that's some dirty language-"

Britta got up from the booth and began to walk away

"Wait!" he turned around in his seat.

She turned around and looked at him, tilting her head with an annoyed frown.

"Do you want to hear about the time I met Jimmy Stewart?" he asked her, crinkling his forehead.

She rolled her eyes then turned around and walked with a brisk pace out of the diner.

He got up and ran after her, stopping her in the parking lot, next to her car.

"That was not very professional," he said to her as she opened her car door.

She turned to him and berated, "Why don't you go back in there and feed your lines to that pushover waitress? She'll blush if you say, 'hi,' to her, for God's sake."

"Because, I like a challenge and I can tell you do too."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Its only a matter of time," he smirked at her.

"You are disgusting!" her eyes widened. She pointed at him, saying, "I wouldn't give you the time of day if I wasn't forced to talk to you by my editor!"

He put his hands into his pockets, looking down at her, "Miss Perry, you'll come back. I know you have limited choices and its either me or some story about the PTA making bandages. I know you'll call me again and it wont be because I'll be front page material on a slow news day. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a coffee to drink and a waitress to make blush." He turned around and went back into the diner.

She shook her head with an angry expression and pursed lips. Britta threw her notebook in the passenger seat, got in the car and slammed the door.


End file.
